


Some sort of window to your right

by EmmaArthur



Series: Lines of Fear and Blame [2]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex needs a hug, Breakfast for dinner, Canon Disabled Character, Dissociation, Friendship, Gen, Isobel needs a hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: Isobel has another blackout trying to go through Noah's things. She calls Alex.





	Some sort of window to your right

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second instalment of my Alex&Isobel friendship series. I hope you like it!
> 
> [PTSD, dissociation, self-harm]

“Isobel?”

“You told me to call you if it happens again,” Isobel articulates into the phone. Words are hard to get through her lips right now. She closes her eyes and tries to calm her breathing down.

“I did,” Alex's voice comes from the speakerphone. “You did good. Did you black out completely?”

“Yes. I was just...trying to tidy up a little, but Noah's stuff is everywhere. I started thinking, and−”

“How much time did you lose?”

“About a half an hour, I think?”

“That's less than last time,” Alex says. “It's a good sign. How do you feel about me coming over?”

“You don't need to−” Isobel starts.

“I mean, will it make you feel uncomfortable to have a man in your house right now?” Alex interrupts her.

“I−not if it's you. I don't think so.”

“Then I'll be there in half-an-hour. Do you need me to stay on the phone until then?”

Isobel takes a deep breath and looks around her. The house is quiet−too quiet, in a way. “No, I'll be alright,” she says shakily, deciding that she doesn't need Alex's voice enough to risk him getting into an accident.

Alex doesn't question it, the way Max would. They're not friends exactly, not yet, but Alex has been a pillar of support the last couple of weeks, since Isobel met him at the Crashdown. They've been working together on techniques to keep the trauma at bay, nearly every evening at the café. Arturo Ortecho straight up agreed to reserve the booth at the back for them when Alex asked him, so they're far enough away from the other patrons that no one can hear their conversation, and Isobel can already feel the effect of their hard work.

Of course, she'd rather have taken some kind of medication to make it all go away, but the first thing Alex was clear about is that it doesn't work like that. And they have no idea what anti-depressants or anxiety medication would do to her, so she's stuck with just alcohol and acetone to drown her sorrow.

Or maybe not even that, when someone finds out just how much she's been drinking.

She grabs her last bottle of acetone from her nightstand and takes a swing. There's not a lot left, she'll have to get more tomorrow. The liquid grates on her palate, but she's long used to the taste.

Heavily sitting down on the bed, Isobel sighs and runs a hand through her hair. The acetone is already taking effect, loosening her muscles and attacking the killer headache she woke up with from her blackout, but it's not enough to make her feel less nauseous. She scratches her arm, the ghost of Noah's hands too present on her skin.

She hasn't moved when Alex knocks on the front door. She stands up slowly, as if waking up from a dream, and walks through the house without looking around her. Having a goal is a good thing. She can reach the door, check that it's Alex, and unlock it.

Alex smiles at her, his head cocked to the side. Isobel blinks her drowsiness away enough to remove the chain and let him in, but not quite enough to remember to stand aside, so Alex squirts around her, managing not to touch her at all. He closes the door again for her, though he doesn't lock it−an out, if she needs it. He knows men make her uncomfortable, too often.

“How do you feel?” Alex asks softy.

Isobel doesn't respond for a moment, because processing the question takes all the cognitive space she currently has. How is it that she could think to call him, and have a semi-coherent conversation on the phone with him, just half an hour ago, and now all her energy is gone?

“Tired,” she says, at least thirty seconds after Alex has stopped waiting for an answer. He's already moving, looking around the house and cataloging everything.

“Let's get you laid down,” he says. “Couch?”

The couch has a pile of Noah's clothes in it.

“No, bed. Where's your bedroom?”

Isobel sluggishly points to the door.

“Can I touch you?” Alex asks.

She bites her lip, and nods.

“Thank you.” He takes her hand, gently but firmly. “What did you do to your arm?” Isobel struggles with the question. “Whatever, you'll tell me when you feel better. I have to disinfect it, though.”

Isobel nods−too late, again−while Alex drags her into the bedroom. It's not the one she shared with Noah. She couldn't bear to go back there, so she's settled into the guest bedroom. It doesn't have an en-suite bathroom, but it also doesn't feel quite as tainted.

Alex guides her to lie down on her side, and pulls the cover over her. She's already barefoot and wearing inside clothes, since she never intended to see anyone today.

“I'll be back in a minute,” he says.

Isobel wants to hold on to his hand, but he carefully slips out. “Just a minute. I promise.”

She nods, but he's already gone. She scratches at her arm again, and her hand meets slickness. Blood. She's scratched through the skin.

Alex comes back what feels like both a second and an hour later with some first aid supplies in his hands. Isobel doesn't know if he found them in her medicine cabinet or grabbed them from his car, but she doesn't really care.

He asks again before touching her, and it makes her feel safer than she ever has with a man. He carefully peels her hand off her bleeding arm, cleaning it up a bit before he lets Isobel chew on her nails while he disinfects the scratches.

“I'll bandage it so you don't scratch again, okay?”

Isobel isn't sure if she nods or just stares at him until her eyelids drop. She can feel Alex wrap gauze around her arm and tape it in place carefully, but it all comes from far away, as she loses her fight against sleep.

“I'll be here when you wake up,” is the last thing she hears, and she feels herself relax a little at that.

Night has fallen when she opens her eyes again. The light is on in the bedroom, and Alex is sitting with his back to her at the small desk, his laptop in front of him. Isobel observes him for a bit, trying to blink away the sluggishness and find it in her to move.

He looks tired. Somehow, he looks more tired today than he did two weeks ago when she first went to him, and that's not an easy feat. His shoulders are slumped, his whole demeanor is that of a man who could sleep for a week.

He's not wearing fatigues, so he must not have been at work when she called. It's Saturday, Isobel remembers. Probably. She doesn't keep much track of time anymore. She's put her catering business on hold for now, since Noah… Since. She forbids herself from even thinking about him, even though she can do nothing else.

What kind of things does Alex do on his downtime? she turns her thoughts firmly back on the man in front of her. Does he need distractions, as much as her? She can't see the screen of his laptop, but he's typing fast, so he's presumably not just wandering on social media or something. Not that he seems to have any social media account, Isobel checked.

Her eyes start drooping again, but she starts herself out of it. She's slept peacefully until now−a side effect of the acetone, most likely−but falling asleep again is inviting the nightmares in.

Her sudden move must have made a noise, because when she looks at him again, Alex has turned. “Hey,” he says.

“You stayed,” Isobel states. She sits up against the headboard, keeping the blanket over herself.

“I said I would,” Alex shrugs. “How are you feeling? Coherent?”

“Mostly,” Isobel answers, thankful that he's giving her the option of not digging into her own state of mind to find out.

Alex stands up, and Isobel realizes that he's removed his prosthetic leg and propped it by the desk. He hops over to sit on the bed, on the side Isobel is not occupying.

While a part of her notices, not for the first time, just how good-looking he is−Michael sure has good taste, if not the manners to go with it−the wounded, scared animal part of her admires that he feels comfortable enough to remove his leg here. Without crutches, it leaves him without a quick way out if he needs one, and it puts him in a relatively vulnerable position in relation to Isobel's able body. Though for all she knows, he can probably take her down with both arms tied behind his back.

“Sorry about that,” Alex nods to his missing leg. “It's been a long day. It doesn't bother you, does it?”

Isobel shakes her head.

“I took the liberty of removing Noah's clothes from the couch. They're in my car, so I can go donate them first thing in the morning, if you want.”

Isobel nods mutely. She's internally impressed that Alex would do that for her, but then he's also been sitting with her while she slept for hours.

“Why are you so nice?” she asks. She vaguely remembers asking Kyle Valenti something like that, in the hospital, when she was dying from the serum. His answer had something to do with a school shooting, she thinks.

Maybe Alex's answer has to do with guns and war and blood too, but he just says, “You need the support right now, and I can provide it.”

“But why?” Isobel pushes.

“You came to me,” Alex evades.

She just glares at him until he caves. Apparently she can do that even cuddled under blankets, in bed, without any make-up on. It's good to know.

“I didn't have anyone to call when I needed it,” he says, not looking at her.

It might be more of a sob story than Valenti's, after all. Damn.

“But also, you came to me,” Alex repeats. “You need help, and you recognized it yourself. And since I'm the one you've taken to calling when you wake up from a blackout, I'm not going to just ignore you.”

“I didn't really think,” Isobel sighs. “Before calling you. It's just...since we've been talking, you know, about this… I mean, your advice has been more useful than any comfort Max can try to give me, and he has other things on his mind right now.”

“What about other friends?” Alex asks.

Isobel bites her lip. It stings, to admit that she doesn't have any. She's always kept her distance, with humans. Noah was the exception, but it turns out she'll spend her whole life regretting it. She doesn't know if it's the weight of carrying secrets, or if she's just always felt different from everyone. She was never good at making friends.

Alex nods without forcing her to verbalize an answer. “It can be hard, to find people who understand,” he says. “When I first came back from Iraq, I felt like the only people I could talk to were those who'd been there too. No one else can relate, not really.”

“But you have friends,” Isobel states. “Right?”

“Sure,” Alex shrugs. “But it took a while to get there. And there are things I don't tell them.”

“Valenti knew about your PTSD.”

“Kyle is impressively good at reading between the lines.”

“Does he know about Michael too?”

Alex blinks. “I didn't know _you_ did,” he says.

“He's my brother.”

“He's not the most talkative person.”

“No,” Isobel agrees. “But it wasn't all that hard to figure out.”

“It's over now, anyway,” Alex shrugs. But it's clear as day that his detachment is feigned. He was almost relaxed before, when Isobel woke up, but now he's tense and alert, arms crossed like he's protecting himself from something.

“Right,” Isobel says, ignoring that her own posture, arms wrapped around her knees, is probably giving off similar vibes.

Alex goes back to the desk to shut off his laptop, and they stay silent for a while.

“Now that you're awake, I should probably go,” Alex says, still not looking quite at her.

“Wait!” Isobel exclaims without meaning to. The thought of being alone in the empty house again is terrifying. “I can...make us some food or something. It's late. You shouldn't drive this late.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alex snorts. “But okay, I'll stay if you want. Just let me get this thing back on so I can move.”

He doesn't look enthusiastic when he takes his stump sock and gets ready to put it on, though. He can't quite hide a wince.

“Maybe you don't need to,” Isobel stops him. Standing up, she heads for the corridor closet and rummages inside for a moment. She comes back with a pair of crutches. “Noah hurt his knee a couple of years ago. Thinking about it, I don't know how he wiggled out of having to get X-Rays without me even noticing,” she frowns.

Alex makes a strange face, and she almost expects him to refuse the crutches, but he takes them from her hands.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully. “I've had it on for too long today. These will do.”

He expertly adjusts the size of the underarm crutches and stands up to take a test step.

“How do you feel about pancakes?” Isobel asks. “It's a breakfast for dinner kind of day.”

“I'll take it,” Alex smiles.

“You cook a lot?” Isobel asks when she's standing in front of her pantry, taking out the ingredients she needs. Alex comes to stand behind her and leans one crutch against the far side of the counter.

“No, just the bare minimum,” he answers. “I've spent my whole adult life eating chow hall food or MREs, so cooking for myself has been an adjustment.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” Isobel blinks.

Alex shakes his head. “Sorry, I forget to drop the jargon sometimes.”

“Whatever,” Isobel shrugs. “Does it mean you can't cook?”

“Without a recipe in front of me, not much, no. But I'm good at following orders.”

“Good. Then mix that up for me,” Isobel hands him the bowl she's just filled with floor and sugar.

Alex laughs and complies. Maybe she likes him because he's so different from Noah, Isobel thinks. She feels safe with him, safer than she's ever felt even with Max or Michael. She knows her brothers would do anything to protect her from outside harm, but they don't know how to protect her from herself, from them, from their messed-up family.

Alex doesn't come here, or to the Crashdown, with his load of baggage. He still has PTSD, of course, and shadows in his eyes, but he doesn't make Isobel or anyone else bear those for him. Their relationship is easy in a way Isobel would never have predicted−and not because of who Alex's father is, or because he's in love with her brother.

They make the pancakes in easy silence, broken only by Isobel giving out orders. Alex expertly moves across the counter on one leg, and he does exactly what she asks without protesting. They soon have a plate piled up with more pancakes than they can eat, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table.

“Help yourself,” Isobel waves to the plate and the corn syrup.

“Thanks. Um, that's good,” Alex says around a mouthful. “Haven't had pancakes in years.”

“That's just a crime,” Isobel says. “You need to come more often, then.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Consider it an open one. I could eat pancakes everyday but they're just not fun to make alone. I'll trade you pancakes for company.”

“I'm in,” Alex smirks, raising his orange juice glass. They went all in with the breakfast for dinner. Isobel offered beers, but Alex wouldn't mix alcohol with his painkillers. He didn't say anything about the number of empty bottles in her trash.

They continue talking lightly about food while they eat. Isobel is too rinsed out for more hashing out of her trauma, and Alex seems to be able to sense it.

“If I'm going to donate Noah's clothes, is there anything else you want to get rid of?” he still asks while she's putting their plates in the dishwasher. “You said going through his stuff is what triggered you.”

“I don't know, the whole house is triggering,” Isobel shudders. “Everything reminds me of Noah. But I can't keep crashing at Max's place three times a week.”

“You can always crash at my place instead,” Alex quips.

Isobel looks at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he's serious. He said that with a smirk, but now his gaze is intense, drilling into her.

“Really?”

“My cabin will always be open to a friend who needs it,” Alex says. “I'd better warn you that it doesn't have a guest room, though.”

“I'd sleep better than here just about anywhere,” Isobel says.

“You should start considering selling this house, though. You deserve to have a place you can truly call your own.”

Isobel thinks about it for a minute. “I don't know,” she says. “I'm not sure I'm ready to move.”

Alex nods and lets go of the subject. This is also something that Isobel really likes about him, that he never forces her to talk or do things she doesn't want to do. None of the men in her life have ever been so freeing.

“It's really getting late,” he says, looking at his phone. “I should probably go.”

“You could always sleep here,” Isobel offers. “I've got a perfectly good bed that no one uses. The sheets are clean, and I doubt it will bring up any kind of memories for you.”

“You want me to sleep in your bedroom?”

“I don't think it's ever going to be _my_ bedroom again, so it's as good as a guest room, right?”

“Okay,” Alex nods. “I'll admit I didn't look forward to the drive back.”

“It's settled, then,” Isobel claps her hands. “Let's go to bed.”

Maybe tonight she'll be able to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Alex and Isobel's friendship has the potential for a lot of sass, and there isn't much of that here. Honestly I don't even know where this came from honestly, because I intended to write sass, I swear. I guess they weren't in that kind of mindspace. 
> 
> I hope you still liked it!


End file.
